The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (463 page)

Wakefield came back from the theatre to change and snatch a bite of dinner. He was in a state of nervous depression. They all, he said, had struggled with the last act till they were in tears. Molly Griffith had all but fainted.

Henriette took a bus to the theatre. Renny called for Sarah, Finch, and Adeline. They arrived early and, with avid interest, watched the theatre fill. Between seats sold, seats given away, and the press, the house was full. No other play was opening in London that night. The Preyde Theatre was of the old-fashioned type that pleased both Sarah and Renny. The gilded, curved fronts of the boxes, the florid curtain, gave that sense of opulence and mystery which they thought fitting in a theatre. In truth, they had never been so much in accord in their lives as at this moment when they sat listening to the orchestra and waiting for the curtain to rise. Finch had just taken his seat when an attendant handed him a note from Wakefield. It read: —

Come behind as soon as you get this. We’re in a terrible fix — W
AKE
.

Finch handed the note to Sarah, then followed the attendant along the aisle and through a door concealed by a curtain.

Wakefield met him under a glaring white light beside two men on a stepladder.

“Don’t fall over that rope,” he warned, then went on breathlessly — “you know, in the second act, Phyllis Rhys plays the piano. It’s a very important scene. She can’t play and the fellow who was faking it for her has just slipped on the stairs and broken his wrist. You must take his place. She’s worried almost to death. Here she is! Oh, here’s my brother, Miss Rhys!”

“You’ll do it?” she breathed. She was wearing the costume for a winter cruise and wearing it superbly.

“Why — I don’t know — what do you want me to play?”

“That waltz by Mozart — you’ll find it on the piano! You’ll do it! Thank God, you’re here!” She threw both arms about his neck.

Finch clasped her to him while waves of apprehension ran along his spine. But he said comfortingly — “Don’t worry, Miss Rhys, we’ll get through it somehow.”

Wakefield led him across the stage, which was furnished as a charming, very modern lounge, to where a piano stood in the opposite wing. The players were already arranged for the rise of the curtain.

“I don’t go on for ten minutes,” said Wakefield, “so I’ll have time to put you on to the ropes. Here is the music. It will be easy for you. Now, when this light over the piano comes on, you must begin to play — at first softly, then getting louder till the music is lively. You play to where that cross is, then break off suddenly. Do you understand? Begin to play the instant the light comes on.”

Ninian Fox put his head round the corner. He looked old and haggard.

“Is it all right?” he whispered.

“Yes, sir — perfectly all right.”

The playing of the orchestra ceased. The curtain rose tremblingly. The leading man’s resonant voice was heard. “‘Tell that story again,’” he said. “‘It’s the best I’ve heard in months.’”

The play had begun.

Finch watched enthralled. There had been a time when he had had a success in amateur theatricals, had even thought of becoming an actor. All that came back to him now. He threw himself into the scene, now in the person of one of the players, now another. It was a moving play. The first scene between Frederick and Cathie was amusing. Wake and Molly did it so well that Finch laughed out loud. Fortunately the audience did the same. Finch was in despair with himself. “Shall I never grow up?” he thought. Yet he again forgot his self-restraint and, at the fall of the curtain, applauded loudly.

“Good!” he exclaimed when Wakefield came to him.

“Do you think it’s going well? Was I all right?”

“You were splendid. So was Molly.”

“Now, for heaven’s sake, don’t make any mistake in the piano business. The instant the light comes on begin to play. It’s one of Miss Rhys’s best scenes.”

Wakefield had sent a note to Sarah explaining Finch’s absence. She and Renny sat watching the stage, feeling in themselves a stern responsibility for the success of this act. Phyllis Rhys carried all before her. Though the audience deplored her behaviour they could not help sympathizing with her. That was what she strove for. She sat down at the piano. Cathie was standing tense in the centre of the stage. The mother spoke in a caressing voice.

“‘Do you know, I was in this room just a few hours before you were born. It was a very different-looking room then. Old-fashioned — almost Victorian. But the piano was the same. I sat down at it, feeling rather strange. I almost asked you just now if you remembered. Fancy! I began to play. I remember the very piece. A little waltz by Mozart that I’ve always loved. Listen.’”

As she pressed the pedal the electric bulb over Finch’s piano lighted. She dropped her hands to the keys and began to play but no sound came. Her back was to the audience so there was no need for her to conceal the consternation in her face.

Sarah gripped Renny’s fingers.

“He’s not playing! Oh ...” she said, in an agonized whisper.

“What’s the matter?” asked Adeline.

They had a glimpse of the author, three seats ahead, tense and despairing. A ripple of laughter ran through the audience.

Finch began to play.

The little waltz stole exquisitely, hesitatingly, apparently from under Miss Rhys’s fingers. She turned her face with a tender smile to her daughter. Never had the young man with the injured wrist played like this. Indeed his playing had been a source of irritation to Miss Rhys. When the curtain fell she went to Finch and once more threw her arms about him.

He gave her a shamefaced look.

“I wonder,” he said, “that you don’t hit me. But the truth is, I was so interested in the play that I forgot all about my part.”

“It didn’t matter! Will you — dare I hope you’ll help me again?”

“I’d love to. And I promise I’ll not make such an ass of myself another time.”

The play gained impetus, the actors confidence in it and themselves. The last act, over which there had been such heartburnings, turned out to be the best of all. The first had shown the skillful interplay of the company. The second had been a triumph for Phyllis Rhys. The third brought rounds of applause for Wakefield and Molly Griffith. Ninian Fox might have misgivings about her emotional power. The audience had not. Her beauty and her unconsciousness of it, her evident absorption in her part, had roused their interest in her at the start. Now, in the final scene, she had her first taste of a storm of handclapping.

At the fall of the curtain, the entire company had two calls. Then, holding hands, Miss Rhys and her leading man bowed their thanks. Then Miss Rhys with Wake and Molly in either hand. Then Wake and Molly together, radiant with happiness. Last, Miss Rhys alone and a few contralto words from her.

“Author! Author!”

Mr. Trimble rose reluctantly from his seat and bowed.

“Speech! Speech!”

With still more reluctance he made his way down the aisle and onto the stage. An expectant silence fell. Mr. Trimble, in rather crumpled evening clothes, made a really brilliant speech but he spoke so low that only the members of the orchestra heard it. He was once more applauded and the orchestra began to play the National Anthem.

Adeline could scarcely contain herself for pride. There she was, wearing her best dress, the only child in a theatre full of people. She was travelled, an experienced person, a woman almost. She had crossed the ocean. She had visited Ireland, been in an Irish Hunt, seen the Grand National run. Soon she would be at a grown-up party, treated as an equal by grown-up people. Her eyes on a level with the shoulder blades of those in front, she could see almost nothing. Nevertheless her eyes flashed, her lips curved, and she drew a deep breath of pride. Music and crowds — she was in the thick of things!

Somehow the little house in Gayfere Street was almost able to contain the people who poured into it. The night was warm and there was an overflow onto the pavement. Somehow Henriette and the waiters assisting her were able to provide each of the guests with refreshment. In fact a great deal was drunk. The actors, the producer, the author, felt that the play was going to be a great success. Only Ninian Fox and some of the critics were doubtful.

END OF A VISIT

A
DELINE AND
H
ENRIETTE
were out early the next morning to buy the newspapers. Hastening along the damply sunlit street they were a great contrast to each other: Henriette with her large unwieldy body, her large flat feet and bulky skirts; Adeline, small, light-footed and barelegged. But the look in their eyes was equally expectant. In Marsham Street they bought the papers and hurried home. Adeline insisted on carrying them all.

Wakefield, sitting up in bed, with Finch and Sarah, Adeline and Henriette, crowded into the room, read aloud the notices. When they were good, which all but two were, and only one of them really bad, he read in an impressive, almost clerical manner. The two unfavorable ones he read in a staccato voice, with pauses for scathing comments on the critics. But nothing he could say equaled what was said by Sarah, Henriette, and Adeline. They scarcely had words for the expression of their contempt.

“It’s the very limit of idiocy,” exclaimed Sarah.

“’E’s jealous, that’s what ’e is,” said Henriette. “Jealous and miserable in ’is mind. I can say this truthfully that there’s never been a better play nor better acted since the time of Shakespeare and that’s a long time.”

Adeline kept repeating — “What things to say! They deserve to have a stick to their backs!”

When the notices had been read, Wakefield chose the best comments on his own and Molly’s acting and read them aloud again, to everyone’s great satisfaction. Then he had breakfast. Then he spent half an hour at the telephone. Then he dressed and went out to meet Molly.

There was so much to do. Quite suddenly he was deluged by invitations. Renny gave him a check and he bought himself a spring suit in Bond Street. Photographs of the company were taken at the theatre. Their pictures were in the papers. Finch’s recital was almost forgotten. But he was soon to start on a tour. Rumours of war persisted but people had become so used to these that they were less disturbed by them. At a dinner party, Renny had an opportunity to ask the opinion of a member of the Cabinet, but before he could speak the gentleman turned to him and said: —

“Do you think there’ll be war, Mr. Whiteoak?”

“Yes,” he answered. “My wife, who is a very clever woman, has cabled me to that effect.”

The last days of the visit sped so swiftly that the morning of departure was on them unbelievably soon. Renny took Adeline shopping and they bought presents for the family at home. Their trunks were packed. Only the goodbyes were to be said. Paris Court was returning with them and his delight at the prospect made the goodbyes cheerful.

Henriette came down the narrow stairs bent under the weight of Adeline’s trunk.

“Good heavens, woman,” cried Renny, springing up the stairs to meet her, “you shouldn’t do that alone!”

Still retaining one end of the trunk, Henriette answered, “I’m used to being overworked. I’ve been overworked since I was ten. But it’s bound to tell on me some day. ’Uman flesh can stand so much and no more. I don’t suppose you’d he needing any extra ’elp at Jalna?”

Renny looked at her doubtfully. “I’m afraid not, Henriette.” He put a ten-shilling note into her hand. “Thanks for looking after Adeline so well.”

She pushed the money from her. “You’ve paid me too well as it is. Money isn’t everything. Many a rich person ’as a broken ’eart. You and your family ’ave given me kindness.”

Henriette was tearful when she said goodbye to Adeline, who was as eager to be off as she had been to arrive.

Paris shook hands with Wake. “When next we meet, I shall be a millionaire,” he said.

“Probably they’ll not let you into the country,” said Wakefield, slapping him on the back.

Paris turned to Sarah. “If you get tired of Finch come out to me, darling.”

Renny kissed his brothers in turn.

“This isn’t goodbye for me,” said Wakefield. “I’m going to the station with you.” His suspicions of Renny had vanished. He felt that he could not do enough to make up to his brother for having harbored them.

Renny saluted Sarah on the cheek. “Goodbye, my dear,” he said, “and don’t take your love too seriously.”

“It is like you,” she said, “to leave behind some remark which rankles.”

“That’s as sound a piece of advice as ever I gave,” he retorted.

One taxicab heavily laden had started on its way. Paris called out that they would miss the train. He and Adeline were already in the other cab. Renny and Wakefield clambered in after them, laden with packages. Finch and Sarah were left on the doorstep.

RETURN TO JALNA

E
VERYTHING WAS READY
for their reception and Alayne had gone to the porch and looked down the drive half-a-dozen times. It seemed a very long while since Renny and Adeline had left home. Yet in some ways the time had flown. Her days had been uneventful. She had had time for reading and making notes on what she had read. The roads were better and Alma Patch, the nursemaid, had taken the children for long walks. Without his sister’s stimulating presence, Archer had been more amenable. No child could be less trouble than Roma. Alayne felt rested and young. She wore a new French wool dress, blue, the shade that best suited her.

The children had brought in some catkins which she had put in a green vase. She had grown daffodils in pots. Rags had washed and groomed the dogs and they sat shivering in anticipation in the hall. Nicholas wore his velvet smoking jacket. He was restless and could not be still for a moment.

“How many times,” he exclaimed. “I have waited in this room for some of the family returning from England!”

“Yes, I suppose so,” answered Alayne absently.

“How well I remember, when I was just Archer’s age, my parents coming home! It was shortly before Christmas and suddenly the snow came pouring down. Papa’s shoulders were white with it and he was laden with packages. Mamma wore a new sealskin dolman and enormous hoops. I can’t imagine how she got in and out of the railway carriage. I hope Renny has remembered to bring me a new pipe from Dunhill’s. It was a great misfortune my breaking my favourite old one. Why, Alayne, I’d had that pipe since — let me see — What was that? Was that the car?”